


Savage and Jaunty

by tabaqui



Series: Wolfpack [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:19:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title and opening lines are from 'Songbooks of the War' by Siegfried Sassoon.<br/>Outside POV.  Originally posted in February of 2007.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Savage and Jaunty

**Author's Note:**

> Title and opening lines are from 'Songbooks of the War' by Siegfried Sassoon.  
> Outside POV. Originally posted in February of 2007.

_On summer morn or winter's night,  
Their hearts will kindle for the fight,  
Reading a snatch of soldier-song,  
Savage and jaunty, fierce and strong;_

 

"Okay, I've got black, two sugars?"  
  
"That's me." Agent Victor Henricksen lifted his hand a little and the gopher with the coffees edged around the sprawl of chairs and agents, passing the cup to the first hand that reached out for it.  
  
"Right – two creams, _three_ sugars...?"  
  
"Jesus. Might as well drink hot chocolate." Opposite Victor at the table, Agent Richard Mason shook his head, making a disgusted face. His own cup had something in it not unlike what was found in the La Brea tar pits.  
  
"Listen to who's talkin' – the man who drinks motor oil." Victor rubbed his eyes – took a wary sip of his coffee. It was scalding hot, bitter-sweet and completely disgusting. "Jesus, this is some bad damn coffee. And I was at the Pentagon." ' _At the Pentagon_ ' was shorthand for the weeks of chaos and misery that had followed the 9/11 attacks on that particular building. The vats of coffee brewed for the swarm of government officials that had all but camped there were legendary in their vileness.  
  
"Now that's some bad coffee," Dick said. He sipped at his own and made a face. "Does coffee go _bad_?"  
  
"Fuck, okay." Victor pushed his paper cup aside and rubbed his eyes again – picked up his list. For five days they'd been trapped in this room, going over papers seized from a busted weapons' dealer. Some guy out in Montana selling everything under the sun to anybody with a pulse and a full wallet. He'd probably still be in business except for Dick's hard work. Dick had been working undercover for a year and a half, following a nigh-invisible trace backwards from some home-grown anti-American group that had attempted to blow up the capital building in Springfield, Illinois.  
  
Victor was on page who-fucking-knows of one of the most meticulous log books he'd ever seen. Every half-assed survivalist and wanna-be Unabomber the guy'd ever sold to had been alphabetized and cross-indexed to a fare-thee-well. If half of those guys had known that Earnest Pile had kept such perfect track of them – and everything they'd bought – he'd have been executed years ago.  
  
"Okay, I'm at...a new page." Victor turned the page over – squinted at the penciled names. "Damn, this goes back to the early eighties. I've got – the Winchesters. John, Dean and –"  
  
"Sam," Dick interrupted softly. "The Wolfpack."  
  
"What?" Victor looked up at Dick, who was looking off into space, frowning a little. "Whaddya mean, 'wolfpack'?"  
  
"That's what ole' Ernie called 'em. The Winchester Wolfpack. And man..." Dick took an absentminded sip of his coffee and grimaced again – looked up at Victor with pale, troubled eyes. "Those three were the scariest motherfuckers I've ever met. Hands down."  
  
"Huh." Victor scanned the log book. The Winchester entry went on for an astonishing fourteen pages. Those boys had packed some ordinance. "What the hell, man? How come I've never heard of these guys? They've bought enough stuff over the years to equip a small army – what the hell are they doing with it?"  
  
"I dunno, man. Ernie didn't know, either. Said they were into some freaky shit. Always had rosaries and pentagrams and stuff – these old books full'a Latin."  
  
"Did you ever talk to them?" Victor was tracing the last few buys the Winchesters had made and – Jesus. It fit – he'd just _bet_ it fit... He grabbed a pen and paper, scribbling notes.  
  
"A couple times. John – that's the dad – he was in the Marines. Did a couple tours in 'Nam. The wife died early on, Ernie said. Those boys..." Dick's voice trailed off and Victor looked up from his notes.  
  
"Yeah, what?"  
  
"They were... Ernie knew a little bit about them. Said they'd started coming in there when the youngest was about five, the oldest about nine or something. Said those kids were like little soldiers. Didn't ever whine or run around... And both of 'em could handle guns, knives – pretty much anything. All John had to do was show 'em once and they had it. Ernie said..." Dick hunched forward, lacing his fingers together, and Victor watched his eyes track sightlessly over the spread of papers and ledgers and photocopies in front of him.  
  
"Ernie said they were trying out an experimental load one day – shootin' targets in the back. He had a kind of gallery set up back there, some paper targets and pop-up ones, some junk, you know. Bottles and cans and shit. Winchester was back there, looking at a new gun for his boy, that Dean. Kid was about ten. Handed over this fuckin' .44 Magnum, kid could hold it for all of two minutes but man... That kid hit every single target. _Every_ one. Center of the bull, every time. The little one, Sam, he did just about that good and Winchester, he acted like it was nothing. Ernie said that Dean boy told him he never missed, not even a moving target." Dick's mouth made a little twitchy move that might have been a smile, but Victor knew it wasn't.  
  
"So he was some kind of survivalist, huh? Anti-government, anti-American whatever?"  
  
"I dunno. He didn't care about the government much. Never talked about stuff like that. He wasn't a neo-Nazi or a Skinhead or anything. He talked about Hell – talked about the end of days, sometimes, about demons and shit. Ernie was pretty sure he had a church or something somewhere, but he never really knew."  
  
"They ever talk about why they needed all that God damn ordinance?" Victor pulled out his cell and scrolled through his numbers – hit the one for Headquarters back in D.C.  
  
"They talked about 'the job' but Ernie never really had a clear picture of what they were doing. I saw 'em last about...a year ago. They were making their own frangible loads and needed some special iron or something."  
  
"Yeah? Hang on a sec. Harry? It's Vic. Listen, can you fax me the particulars on that mess in Oregon, that town that blew up...? Rivergrove, right. Yeah. You got the number? Okay, thanks." Victor flipped his phone shut and met Dick's interested stare. "These boys – this 'wolfpack' – they bought some very specific things from ole' Ernie back in November. I think they were the ones that destroyed that little town in Oregon. You remember?"  
  
Dick thought about it, pursing his lips, and Victor got up and stood by the fax machine, watching as it eventually spit out page after page of documentation and forensic evidence. Specifically, the make up of the explosives that had been used to level the Rivergrove High School. Victor shuffled the pages together and sat back down, checking one list against another. The background hum of voices and paper shuffling receded as he read.  
  
"Yeah, I remember," Dick said finally, making Victor jump a little. "About half the town died in the explosion, the rest of 'em were either dead on the ground or just – gone. Right?"  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"And you think the Winchesters had something to do with it?"  
  
Victor made another tick-mark on the fax and looked up, feeling a vulpine grin stretch his mouth. "I fucking _know_ they did. Dick, you've got to introduce us."  
  
Dick sighed, his hands curled together and tucked under his chin, elbows wide on the table. "Vic...I dunno."  
  
Victor put his pen and the papers down, laying his hands flat on them. "What don't you know?" he asked softly, and Dick looked up, fast.  
  
"Don't even, man. It's got nothing to do with – anything. Politics...hell, you know I don't give a flying fuck about who gets the extra cookie." Dick's gaze – bloodshot and weary – was steady on Vic's and Victor sighed a little – nodded.  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, okay. I know that. It's just – sometimes –"  
  
"Sometimes you wanna punch people. I know. Listen, lemme tell you about these boys, okay?"  
  
"Sure. You tell me." Victor sat back, automatically picking up his coffee and sipping it and then putting it back down in disgust.  
  
"Okay. Like I said, it was about a year ago. End of March. I was working at Ernie's and they came in. Restocking some ammo, just general kind of stuff. All three of 'em. And there was this one old coot in there, real ball-buster type. Had an opinion about everybody and everything. Name was Jessup..."  
  
  
  
 _"And that Got-damn bitch in Noo York, that Clinton bitch, she thinks she's gonna be president? Makes me fuckin' sick, I tell ya."  
  
"She's got some balls," Dick says, refolding the BDU pants that the midday rush had left in a tangled heap.  
  
"Balls, my ass. I tell ya, boys –" Jessup pauses to lift his dingy Styrofoam cup to his lips and spit, brown flecks of tobacco caked on the edge. "Never trust anything that can bleed for five days and live!" Jessup breaks into a wheezy cackle, tickled at his own wit and Dick smiles tiredly and moves on to the mess of olive-drab t-shirts. Ernie's behind the counter, making notes in his log book and three or four guys – local boys in mud-encrusted work boots and wash-faded denim – are perusing the aisles, stretching out their lunch breaks. One of them is Jessup's son, newly returned from Iraq.  
  
The little dinger attached to the door goes off and Dick looks up, seeing three men walking back toward the counter. Three big men that move like cats, silent in their worn boots. The tallest one seems to be the youngest, and his cool, accessing stare makes Dick almost reach for the gun he carries. Almost. He stops himself with the merest twitch and the kid **notices**. His lips move, saying something to his companions and all three gazes are suddenly fastened on Dick and he feels...  
  
Jesus, he feels like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Feels like a mouse under the stoop of a hawk. He can feel sweat break out, sudden and rank, under his arms and across his back and he lifts his hands from the t-shirts he forgot he was folding and holds them up.  
  
Doesn't breathe until those hot, hungry gazes move off him.  
  
Behind the counter, Ernie closes up his log book and stows it away out of sight, his lips twisting in a faint, nervous smile. "Winchester," he says, and it takes Dick a minute to realize that's a name. The name of these men and these are the Wolfpack that Ernie's talked about a couple times.  
  
"Ernie," the oldest one says, and his voice is low and a little rough, like he's a smoker. John. "We're making up some special loads; need that iron we talked about."  
  
"Oh, sure. I got it."  
  
"Course you do," Winchester says, in a tone that says 'you'd have it or you'd suffer'. "Need a couple cases of the usual, too and about a pound of powder. An' we wouldn't say no to some more of those MREs."  
  
"Except not the Chicken Chow Mein," the middle one says. Ruined voice, and Dick can see the scar across his throat – the grin on his face. "Those're like roadkill in a bag."  
  
"No Chow Mein, then," Ernie says. He's pulling a pad of paper toward him, jotting down a list that the oldest Winchester leans over to see, adding things with little stabs of a finger. The other two stand just behind him, shoulder to shoulder, backs toward each other and toward the older man. It takes Dick a moment to see, but they're watching the rest of the store – checking the aisles, noting the positions of the other customers. Casing the place like they're gonna rob it or open fire any minute. Or like they think someone **else** might. It's a little unnerving and Dick goes back to folding shirts, but they're sloppy and uneven. Sam and Dean, Dick finally remembers. That's what Ernie said the boys were called.  
  
Jessup, of course, is oblivious to the tension – can't keep his fool mouth shut and he goes and leans on the counter near the Winchesters, setting his cup down and digging into his hair like he's got lice or fleas or something. "So, you boys look fit," he says, and the 'boys' – both over 21, at least – give him a flick of a glance that takes him in and dismisses him in about three seconds. "Haven't got any flat feet, do ya? Wet the bed?"  
  
The youngest – Sam – lifts an eyebrow at his brother, lips quirking in a little grin, and then he turns to Jessup. "Fuck did you say?"  
  
Jessup hitches at his pants and sniffs, hard. "I assed if there was somethin' **wrong** with you boys. Here you are, big as life and twice as ugly and I don't see a uniform on either of ya."  
  
The two look at each other for a moment, clearly baffled. It's the father that lifts his head – that looks over at Jessup with a flat, predatory gaze that's just this side of inhuman. It makes Dick go cold all over.  
  
"You know, I did my time over in 'Nam. Gave four years of my life to this country." John looks over his shoulder at his boys and something flickers there. Pride, but something else, too. Possession – obsession. "I gave enough," John says, and his voice drops to a rumbling growl. "The mill won't grind my boys."  
  
"Ah, bullshit," Jessup snaps, and John all but snarls. His head goes down and his shoulders round a little, as if at any moment he's going to pounce. Dick starts edging backward. Out of range, he later figures, but at that moment he's simply overcome with the need to get the fuck away.  
  
"John here, he was in the – the Marines, right? Semper Fi!" Ernie says, nervous little laugh. The boys have also gone stiff with tension, moving subtly to form a human wall in front of their father. The air seems to crackle from their combined, intense stares. Stares that are fixed on Jessup, who continues to be utterly ignorant of just what it is he's stirring up.  
  
"Marines. Bunch'a pansy-asses. I was a 101st Airborne in the war – Pathfinder! We dropped down behind those fuckin' Nazis – wasted those bastards." Jessup gropes for his cup and spits again, wiping his lips on the back of his wrist. His coat is stained there, dark with saliva and tobacco juice.  
  
"Heard there were misdrops all over," John says, and Jessup puffs like a tom turkey.  
  
"Bullshit! Pathfinders helped win that war – went in first everywhere! In before any Got-damned jar heads, that's for damn sure." Jessup takes a couple fast, shuffling steps and stares up at the older boy. Much too fucking close, but Jessup is immune to Dean's basilisk stare. It's making the hairs on the back of Dick's neck rise.  
  
"Both you boys oughtta be in the Got-damned Army! Instead'a runnin' around in the woods like some kinda draft-dodgin' hippies. Yes sir, in the Army like my boy!" And he reaches out and drives the heel of his hand into the oldest boy's shoulder.  
  
Faster than a snake, the older one's hand flashes out – grabs Jessup's wrist, twist and bend. It makes a grotesque crunching noise and Jessup sags, his face going a sick greenish-white. The air wheezes out of his lungs in a strangled squeal, and Dick can see his tobacco-stained teeth behind his lips.  
  
"Don't touch me," Dean says, deadly quiet. All three of them practically vibrating with poorly-leashed tension and Dick thinks that if they had wolf's ears, they'd be laid back. If they had muzzles, they'd be crinkling in toothy snarls.  
  
"Hey – hey! Get the fuck away from him!" Jessup's son – who's been idling back by the rifle display – is suddenly running up the aisle. He's got a rifle in his hands, price-tag dangling, and Dick opens his mouth to yell. To tell him to drop the fucking gun, to get **down** but it's much too late.  
  
A knife suddenly sprouts from his chest. No, it really didn't, Dick thinks, a little hysterically. It just looked like it did. Jessup's kid – and he's pushing thirty – stumbles to a standstill, staring down at the slim, black handle that's protruding from his ribs. Staring, face white, and then his shaking hands drop the rifle and he sits down hard.  
  
"Oh, shit, shit, shit," Ernie's chanting, and Dick just stays where he is, frozen. Sam has another knife in his hand and Dean's got Jessup pinned by his broken wrist, gun out and leveled at the man on the floor. John has a gun in his hand, too, and he holds it casually on the two men who're stupid enough to run up from other parts of the store. They skid to a stop, staring, and Dick wonders if he could clear his own weapon and take out one of them before they shot him dead.  
  
"Ernie," John says, and Dick swears he hears amusement in that basso rumble,"... we're gonna go get something to eat. We'll be back at sundown. I expect you'll have that order together by then."  
  
Ernie starts and blinks, staring at Jessup's kid – flinching when John turns to look at him. "Uh...sure. Yeah, sure, I'll...I'll have it..."  
  
"That's what I thought. Boys." John lifts his gun, muzzle pointed to the ceiling and Dean does the same, letting go of Jessup, who crumples to his knees. Sam stalks forward, rolling gait of the prowling wolf. He goes down on one knee beside Jessup's kid, who's just sitting there, legs sprawled out like a toddler, eyes glassy. He puts his hand on the knife-hilt and Dick flinches all over.  
  
"Fuck – d-don't, don't do that, it'll – hey, please – **don't** –" Dick can't get the words out fast enough. If Sam pulls that knife out, Jessup's kid – and Dick can't think of his name, just fucking **can't** – will bleed to death before they can get help.  
  
Sam looks up at him and his eyes are cat-tilted, coldly assessing. "I missed his heart. Anybody that was in the Army knows how to deal with a sucking chest wound. Ain't that right, old man? They taught you how to fix that in the field, didn't they?"  
  
"Do-oon't hurt my boy," Jessup wheezes, and his voice has gone cracked and shaky. He's cradling his broken wrist and his hand is already swelling, skin purpling. "You leave my boy be, Got-damn you, you fucker –"  
  
"Better get a plastic bag," Sam says, and then his long fingers pluck the knife out. Jessup's kid groans in agony and Dick can plainly hear the gurgling hiss of blood and air leaking out of the wound. His lung will collapse in moments if they don't do something.  
  
Sam wipes the knife on the wounded man's thigh – stands and slides the blade away so fast Dick doesn't even see where or how. Then all three of them are fading back – out – Dean's green eyes snapping with excitement and John's lips twisted in a satisfied little grin. It's a long, long moment before anyone moves._  
  
  
  
"And they came back for the order?"  
  
"Hell yeah," Dick said, rubbing his hand along the underside of his jaw, stubble rasping under his fingers. "Cool as you please, walked in, got their stuff and paid cash. Didn't turn a hair. Ernie said they'd kill him if the police were involved, and not one of us doubted it."  
  
"Jee-sus Christ. Did that guy make it?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. He did. Got pneumonia in the hospital and was down for a long fucking time. Jessup, he was never really the same after that. He died about a year later."  
  
Victor looked down at his scribbled notes – at the fax from HQ. "Dick – I know you don't like it but...if the Winchesters took out that town... If they're responsible for that – we've got to bring them in. We've got to _get_ those bastards."  
  
Dick sighed, but he was nodding – reaching for his phone and Victor knew he'd do it. Knew he'd set something up. All Victor needed to do was get close. There was DNA at the scene – there was evidence that was easy to trace and track and match up if you had your source. If you had the vehicle or the clothes or, hell – anything. They just needed one fucking break...and maybe they could find the miserable sons of bitches who'd killed almost three thousand innocent men, women and children.  
  
  
  
  
It took a while. Took a few months, since the bad guys were all spooked by Ernie going down. Spooked by whatever the fuck had happened out in Kansas – sink hole or comet or fucking underground nuclear testing, who knew? Victor had stood on the crumbling lip of destruction, looking out over a vast, pocked crater that still smoked and heaved, weeks later. No ideas, no clues, and no way to know how many had died.  
  
In his down-time, he assembled a file. Wolfpack file. It was disappointingly slim, but growing. John Winchester, born in 1954. Average man, son and grandson of veterans – military brat who moved here and there across the country. Ended up in Lawrence, Kansas when his father died and got his grieving mother to sign him up a year early for the service. Two tours in Vietnam, earned himself some medals – got into some trouble.  
  
Discharged in the spring of '74, an OTH or 'other than honorable' discharge. Apparently, he'd attacked a fellow Marine – nearly killed him. Refused to say why, even under threat of jail-time. The other guy hadn't pressed charges, for some reason, and he'd killed himself a year later.  
  
After that, John had gone back to Lawrence – met a girl and married her, got himself a partnership in a garage. Normal Joe until the winter of nineteen eighty-three, when his house had burned and his wife had died. Nothing suspicious – faulty wiring, they'd said. But three days after the funeral John Winchester, four-year-old Dean and infant Sam had simply...vanished.  
  
There were traces, here and there. A speeding ticket, a purchase of a gun. Notations from crime scenes where his fingerprints had been found, matched to his Army file. Nothing had ever come of those – not enough evidence or suspicion to make him a number-one suspect. Scraps of things. A transitory and hidden life. Nothing whatsoever on the boys. Not one report card or hospital visit – no crimes, no handouts. It was as if they'd never existed.  
  
It gave Victor a chill, really – leafing through the scant pages that marked three human lives and seeing...nothing.  
  
Almost four months after the mess in Kansas, Dick finally called. He had a meeting set up – had a guy who could give them some information on the Wolfpack. Somebody Dick had run into once, branching vine from the trunk of contacts he'd cultivated at Ernie's. Victor flew out to Omaha and met Dick at the field office there. They both got on board a little puddle-jumper of a Cherokee and flew out to Broken Bow, two hundred miles or so of Nebraska emptiness passing under their wings, weathering toward a grey and gold October.  
  
While they flew, Dick told Victor everything he knew. This guy they were meeting – Gordon Walker – was a little nuts. Seems he and the Winchesters had some kind of running feud, and he was more than happy to pass on any info. In fact, he probably knew that Dick was somehow connected to the government, and he didn't care.  
  
"He's got a hard-on the size of a fuckin' donkey for these guys," Dick said, leafing through another sparse folder of papers. Another man who lived so far off the grid it was scary. Gordon had dropped out of sight after his sister had been kidnapped – possibly murdered. They'd never found her body – never found him. "He wants us to meet him here –" Dick turned a creased map toward Victor and Victor squinted down at the little red X near the town of Rose.  
  
"What the hell is 'here'?"  
  
"Bar – roadhouse. Kind of a...home base. He says. Listen, Victor..." Dick tapped his fingers on the map, looking agitated. He was wearing faded BDU pants and a thermal shirt – old flannel and barn coat draped over the seat back. Grungy boots and gimme hat, everything showing wear and tear. 'In character', so to speak. "The people who use this place are...hell, they're crazy. Some of the stuff Gordon told me... You're just gonna have to be super low-profile, man. I mean...like some kind of mutant mole." Dick's pale gaze was filled with concern – possibly outright fear and Victor frowned. Felt that tight little shiver of tension go through him that he always got when a situation started going south.  
  
"Dick, if this is gonna blow your cover... Do you think these people would...come after you?"  
  
"These people'd come after God himself if they thought they could. They're on a whole different plane of reality, man, just..." Dick pushed his hat back, scrubbing his fingers through his thinning, light-brown hair. "They're not crazy like Unabomber crazy; they're a whole 'nother kind of crazy altogether. So we gotta be careful."  
  
"Then we'll be careful. You tell me what I need to know and we'll be slick as grease through a goose." Victor grinned and after a moment Dick grinned back. They spent the next forty minutes in the air – and the subsequent hundred miles of driving – discussing their cover, their reasons for finding the Winchesters – everything. Dick had a hold-all of worn-out clothes for Victor to change into at the Rose Phillips 66 and when they arrived just at dusk at the roadhouse, Victor felt comfortably settled into his personae. Felt damn good in the canvas pants and tee, flannel and old Army field jacket. He even had his gun, tucked into a shoulder holster, and a long knife at his waist. Standard for this place, Dick insisted, and worried that they should have brought more.  
  
The shock-sprung old Ford truck Dick had secured lurched into a pocked dirt parking lot outside a ramshackle building. _Harvelle's Roadhouse_ across the front. Other trucks and cars – a couple campers – shared the lot with them, all of them road-worn and nondescript. Splashed with mud and showing their age. A shiny red El Camino sat in pride of place off to one side and Dick nodded toward it.  
  
"That's Gordon's rig. You wouldn't believe what he's packin' in there. All of these vehicles – traveling damn arsenals."  
  
Victor watched a heavy-set man in camo BDU's and a stocking cap stumble down the stairs and climb into a Jeep – take off with a roar and a spit of muddy gravel. "Why'd it have to be a fuckin' bar?" he muttered, stepping down out of the truck and following Dick inside. Bars were trouble, no matter what. Alcohol and firearms and crazy people – Victor's worst nightmare.  
  
In the doorway Dick paused for a moment and every head turned toward them. Instant – fleeting – and Victor felt that shiver of tension again. Attention was something he'd been taught to avoid. But every stare had been frankly assessing and utterly unselfconscious and Victor knew that this wasn't a place where you went unseen. The atmosphere was subdued, for a bar. Click of pool balls from off to the left – murmured conversation and the twangy chords of some kind of Southern rock. A few small knots of men at the tables, a few more men – and a couple women – alone at the bar. Dark wood, dark corners – a spooky place.  
  
Dick guided them through the tables to one near the back – to a man who stood up to greet them. Tall black man with a fanatic's gaze and a tight, close-lipped smile. The empty left sleeve of his denim work-shirt was pinned up to his side. The man – had to be Gordon – gestured toward the empty seats across from him. Lifted his hand and a moment later an older blonde woman brought over three beers. She gave Gordon a nod – shot a long look at Victor and then gave them all a tight little smile.  
  
A pretty woman, Victor thought. Pretty and tough as old oak.  
  
"Gentlemen, you're here on Gordon's say-so, but this is my place, and I'll send you on your way if you don't behave. Understood?"  
  
"Yes ma'am," Dick said, touching the brim of his hat, and Victor echoed him. The woman's dark eyes stayed on him for a moment longer and then she was walking away, voice lifted in a friendlier greeting to someone else.  
  
"Ellen tells it like it is," Gordon said, picking up his beer and taking a long swallow. "And she doesn't like me much. So..." Gordon looked straight at Victor, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He had a scar down his cheek – down his neck. Had grey in the tight-curled hair of his head. "So you want to know where to find the Winchesters. Sam and Dean."  
  
"And John," Dick said, and Gordon's gaze flickered over to him and then back to Victor.  
  
"John's dead. Down in Kansas."  
  
"I'd heard rumors, but..." Dick took a sip of his own beer and Victor followed suit. It was some pale piss-water – he'd have preferred a shot.  
  
"And this time, the rumors are true. Guess John was just a man...just like the rest of us." Gordon gave a little, private laugh – put down his beer and rubbed at the jut of flesh and bone where his shoulder ended. "Vulnerable, like the rest of us. Let me tell you what I know..."

 

 

"Place looks like a fucking whorehouse," Victor said, staring through the smeared windshield of the Ford.  
  
"Used to be. Might still be, sometimes. Owner wasn't picky." Dick stared, too, rubbing his hands together. Two weeks of running around from here to there – meeting with this and that person, securing everything that could be nailed down and hoping to God it all worked out. Behind the building – miles away but still a sort of backyard – was the New Mexico Bluewater State Park and the Navajo and Zuni Indian reservations. A lot of land – a good place for two survivalist types to hide, if things went bad. It had made Victor edgy, all that trackless land.  
  
But now, sitting outside the Piñon, it was all falling into place. The weathered, two-story building was a bar, trading post, and back-door gun dealership. Half a dozen rooms upstairs for private deals, and two falling-down cabins in back for overnight stays. One of which was, unofficially, property of the Wolfpack.  
  
Or it had been, under the old owner. Fredrick Jinks had been into things that would have curled old Ernie's hair, but since his death his son Todd had gotten nervous. Had, in fact, parleyed some gun running and coke dealing into Witness Protection and a new life. Starting right after they had the Wolfpack behind bars.  
  
"So – they'll be here some time tonight?" Victor rubbed his palm over his chin, the bristle of stubble rasping on his skin. Dick was similarly prickly and they'd both been living on coffee and gas station sandwiches for days.  
  
"That's what Todd says. He said they're expected around midnight. Apparently, they called ahead – told him to 'air out the fucking cabin this time'. Guess they don't like mildew."  
  
"Who does? So, eight hours. Let's...take a look." Against Todd's wishes, they'd set up surveillance and recording gear in the cabin – had it all tied into a little back office in the Piñon, a room Todd was fairly certain the Winchesters had never been into. Private to the owner and even they, it seemed, respected that.  
  
Victor and Dick walked inside, nodding once to the hulking man behind the bar. Todd nodded back, looking constipated and sweaty and Victor hoped to fuck he wasn't going to blow it. A lot was riding on this bust. The office was through a half-hidden door and down a couple narrow halls that turned in and in, tight spiral. The room itself was directly behind the bar, one whole wall taken up with the one-way mirror that backed the bar and had given Jinks, senior the perfect spot to spy on his customers.  
  
The cramped little room was already filled to overflowing with books and papers and junk. The big, scarred desk had been hastily cleared to make room for the tightly packed mass of FBI equipment. Sound and recording stuff, two monitors for the two different cameras, a computer to store every bit and byte of digitalized information. It was all up and running; the soft whir of hidden fans, little LEDs blinking here and there in the musty dimness.  
  
Victor slumped down into a sprung office chair, grimacing as it shrieked under his weight. Dick was giving the equipment a slow once-over and Victor watched in silence for a few minutes. The interior of the cabin was on the screens in a flat sort of grey-blue. Spartan in their set-up, there were two iron-frame beds, a table and a scatter of chairs. A long, locked trunk against one wall and a corner with a two-burner stove and a small-size 'fridge. An old-fashioned pie safe served as pantry and dish cabinet and the bathroom 'walls' were long, milky curtains of plastic, shower and sink and toilet all sharing the same tiled corner, rusty drain in the middle.  
  
"Christ, they got better facilities at fuckin' Leavenworth," Victor muttered, amazed that anyone would voluntarily live in such a bleak place.  
  
"Guess they only come through here once or twice a year. Todd says they go out digging along the Divide, some little creek near Red Rock park. Getting agate."  
  
"Agate? What's agate?" Victor asked.  
  
"Some kind of rock? I dunno. Todd thinks they're crazy – you can buy the stuff in every gas station, apparently. It's not rare around here. But they always go get it themselves. Used to do it with their Dad, he said."  
  
"Weird." Victor couldn't imagine trekking into the desert to dig up some kind of fucking rock, but – whatever got them here, he was happy. The door to the office opened and their tech came in. Weedy little guy in jeans and a couple layers of shirts, glasses and a buzz cut. "Hey, Thornton."  
  
"Gentlemen," Thornton said. He looked suspiciously at Dick. "You didn't touch anything, did you?"  
  
"Just gave it a once-over," Dick said, hands raised, and Thornton squeezed past him, muttering under his breath. Dick grinned over at Victor and Victor grinned back. They both watched for a moment as the tech double-checked everything Dick had looked at and tweaked things, thin fingers pale and nimble on the mass of cords and equipment.  
  
The door opened again and it was Todd, sweating and looking sick, his bulky self blocking the door as he stared in at them. "Man, I really don't like this. If those boys ever find out I set them up –"  
  
"You're gonna be living the anonymous high life in fucking Jersey or something, don't you worry about it," Victor said, but Todd didn't look happy.  
  
"They can find a fucking needle in the desert. These guys are serious – oh _shit_!"  
  
"What?" Victor was on his feet, the chair squeaking out from under him and into Thornton's knees.  
  
"That's them, they're here, _fuck_ , they're here, they're fucking early, Jesus _Christ_ –!" Todd was seriously panicking.  
  
"What? They're already here?" Victor was scanning the bar, squinting through the slight distortion of the one-way glass. Scanning every face out there. "Where, where are they?"  
  
"Right there at the _bar_ , oh shit, I gotta get out there – " Dick grabbed Todd's shoulders and was shaking him a little, and Victor heard Dick's voice as a background murmur, indistinct. Todd sounded like he might be having a heart attack but Victor ignored him in favor of getting his first real look at the men he'd worked so fucking hard to find.  
  
The two men standing at the bar looked like they'd walked off the set of some kind of movie, right down to the smudges of road-dust on their faces and the frayed patches on their jeans. Biker boots, well-worn and broken in, and leather jackets that probably concealed any number of weapons. Everything dusty, even their sunglasses and wind-combed hair.  
  
 _*Easy Rider for the twenty-first century,*_ Victor thought.  
  
"Shut the fuck up. Listen," Dick said, and Todd made a weird little whimpering sound. "You just go out there and treat them like you always do. We're just gonna sit back here and watch. Nothing's going down, you got it? Nothing. Not until our back up's here."  
  
As Victor watched, they slid the sunglasses off, tucking them away. The taller one had a dark, neatly-trimmed mustache and beard that gave his face a devilish look. A set of marks – scars – raked his features from hairline to chin, cutting across his left eyebrow and lid – nicking his mouth. His beard was pale there, and his eyebrow was jagged. It hadn't touched his looks, and Victor supposed he got a lot of women with that scar-twisted grin he was shooting the waitress.  
  
"Yeah, okay. I hear you. Okay. Fuck. Okay," Todd mumbled, and Victor finally looked around when he shut the office door behind him, going back out to the bar.  
  
"If that fuck-up blows our cover –"  
  
"He won't. I think." Dick looked slightly freaked himself, and Victor clenched his teeth together, willing that little gut-twisting feeling of _wrongness_ away. "Why in fuck are they so early? That call was traced – they were in fucking West Virginia when they called."  
  
"Man, I do not know. You gonna –"  
  
"I got it," Dick said, getting out his phone. Lighting some fires, because they thought they'd had eight more hours to get things just right and the SWAT teams were still on their way, heading in from Albuquerque. Victor nodded once, watching as Thornton turned on the recorder that was wired to the mic they had planted up above the bar. Todd's voice came over it, slightly tinny – a little staticy, but clear.  
  
 _"Hey, boys. You're sure here early. Been spendin' some time soupin' up that ride of yours?"  
  
"You look like shit, Todd,"_ the scarred one said, and Dick leaned in a little closer, his phone pressed tight to his ear.  
  
"That's Sam, he's the youngest. Those scars are new since I saw him last. Yeah, yeah, I'm here –"  
  
 _*Sam. Those are some nasty marks. Looks like a friggin' bear got him or something. Fuck, that's a gun under there –*_ Victor watched as Sam unselfconsciously adjusted an under-arm holster, revealing in that moment at least two knives, as well, tucked into his belt.  
  
 _"Ate some bad chili for lunch – been runnin' to the can all day,"_ Todd said, little squiggle of laughter and the other – Dean – grinned at him. He was older by a few years – shorter, but not by much. He had a short, almost military haircut, stark contrast to his brother's nearly shoulder-length hair. His voice was rough – low – and Victor's gaze traced the scar on his throat – the way his jacket bulged here and there. More guns, for sure – more knives , who knew what the fuck else.  
  
 _"That's too bad, Todd. Teach you to eat your own cookin'. How 'bout some whiskey?"  
  
"You got it,"_ Todd said, and moved off, reaching for glasses and a bottle. Sam and Dean stood there, leaning on the bar. Looking around the room, gazes moving in slow, overlapping arcs. A predator's gaze, and Victor could all but see the mental checklist of exits, doors, blind spots, other people. Even their relaxed poses seemed studied – a put on – and Victor watched in silence as they traded glances – tiny movements of fingers and eyebrows. The private language of brothers. Or soldiers.  
  
Todd came back into view, sliding two glasses over the polished bar top, half-full of whiskey. Both men picked them up – eyed them and sniffed them and gulped them down. Dean reached into a pocket and pulled out a roll of money – counted out a fan of bills and laid them down.  
  
 _"That enough for ya, Todd? Or did you raise the rates since your old man bit it?"_  
  
Casual cruelty in Dean's tone, and Todd's shoulders tightened a little. His voice was relatively normal, though, when he answered. _"Everything's the same, man. Even went in and flipped the mattresses for ya."  
  
"Better not have fucked with my porn stash,"_ Dean said, and Sam laughed softly. Todd pushed a hand into his pocket and pulled out a key – slid it across the bar to Dean.  
  
 _"It's just like you left it."  
  
"Oh, we didn't expect anything less,"_ Sam said, and Victor could hear, as well as Todd, the easy threat in his voice. Dean picked up the key and grinned, his eyes crinkling a little at the corners. A wide, white smile that under normal circumstances would have looked friendly. He was a good-looking man, and Victor was sure he could draw in the unsuspecting like flies.  
  
 _*Draw 'em in, convince them he's there to help...and then blow 'em all to fucking pieces.*_ Victor wanted to catch these boys – catch them red-handed and see them locked away. Wanted it so bad it hurt. While they'd waited for this day – for this opportunity – he and Dick had gathered every scrap of intel they could on the Wolfpack. Most of it was rumors – bar-talk and bullshit. But there was enough truth in there to make Victor wake up in a cold sweat at night. They were _hunters_ , pure and simple. And whatever fucked up, delusional quest they were on...they'd stopped caring about ordinary people. Stopped being afraid of every-day consequences.  
  
Victor was going to put that fear back into them.  
  
He watched them walk out of the bar – watched with impatience for them to go into the cabin. He hadn't noticed any gear on them – no duffels or bags or anything else and it made him uneasy. Todd had said they drove an old black car – old Chevy. He wasn't 'into' cars, so he didn't know what kind it was. Time to find out. "Dick – you go out front and have Todd show you their car, get the make, model –"  
  
"Yeah, I got it." Dick went out, shutting the warped door with a little bang and Victor hovered over the monitors, waiting. Watching as the camera that faced the door finally had an image. Image of the door opening – both men walking inside and shutting it behind them. Victor looked around for his chair and dragged it closer – sat down as Thornton turned up the volume on the mic in the cabin.  
  
 _"What d'you think Todd's up to?"  
  
"I dunno. He looked like he was about to jump right out of his skin, though."_ Sam ran a finger along the window-ledge – stalked over to the kitchen area and yanked open a cabinet. _"Fucker cleaned up the salt."  
  
"He never **did** listen to his daddy,"_ Dean said. He walked over to the chest that sat against one wall – crouched down and undid the padlock on it while Sam did...something. Victor squinted at the monitor.  
  
"What the hell is he doing?"  
  
Thornton leaned in closer and then shrugged. "Looks like he's putting salt on the windowsill."  
  
"What the hell?" Victor muttered. He watched Sam put a line of salt on both windowsills – another in front of the door, while Dean rummaged in the chest. It mostly had camping and hiking type gear in it, shovels and rope and a few odds and ends. Victor had carefully gone through it while the cameras were being installed. Whatever Dean was looking for – it wasn't anything to worry about. Eventually, Dean rummaged out a book and held it up, little grin of triumph on his face.  
  
 _"Knew this was here. You owe me, Sam."_  
  
Sam finished with the salt – tossed the container onto the rickety table and sauntered over to Dean. Victor could see the smile on his face, teeth gleaming white in the stark light of the single bulb that hung from the ceiling. _"And what, exactly, do I owe you, Dean? Got something...specific in mind?"_  
  
Dean stood up slow, letting the chest go shut with a thump – letting the book fall down onto its worn lid. _"I think you know,"_ he said, almost too low for the mic to pick up. And then he was pushing his brother back into the wall – pushing in close, jean-clad thigh pressing between Sam's, hands fisted in the lapels of Sam's jacket and his mouth... His mouth on his brother's, hard and hungry.  
  
"What the _fucking hell_ are they doing?" Victor stared at the screen, feeling his heart pounding just a little too hard – too fast. Shocked and appalled and riveted by the spectacle.  
  
"Looks like they're making out," Thornton said, and leaned over, poking through his backpack. He had it stuffed with Slim-Jims and cookies and crackers.  
  
"Yeah, but they –" Victor stopped talking. Thornton had no idea the Winchesters were brothers and right that second, Victor really didn't feel like explaining it. He knew his mouth was hanging open and he snapped it shut, glaring at the screen. "Jesus."  
  
"Hey, Vic, Todd says he doesn't see their – holy _fuck_!"  
  
"You guys really need to come ahead into the Century of the Fruitbat," Thornton muttered, looking irritated.  
  
Victor just stared at him in total confusion for a long moment and then dragged his gaze back to the monitor. Back to the Winchester Wolfpack and... "Fuck."  
  
"Getting there," Dick said.  
  
And they were. Getting there. God, they were... Victor couldn't help it – his brain was running ahead of itself, merrily cataloguing detail upon detail. _Noticing_ , when what he really wanted to do was look away. _*Do you really? Really want to look away? Because...*_  
  
Because... Sam had slipped to his knees, jacket half off his shoulders and his shirt rucked up, his shoulders pressed tight to the wall. Pushed back, because Dean was leaning over him, jacket in a heap on the floor, his jeans undone and his cock... Cock in Sam's mouth, pushing in, in, in – pushing Sam's head back into the wall with a little thump. Dean had one forearm on the wall, bracing his body in its lean. The other reached out – down – cradled the back of Sam's head. Fingers between the wall and his brother's skull as Dean's hips surged forward again and again.  
  
Sam's hands were under Dean's shirt – sliding up his ribs, slipping down – gripping Dean's hips and then his thighs, long fingers working in the denim, his eyes wide open. The camera caught the gleam of them, turned up to Dean's face.  
  
 _"Sam...fuck..."_ Deans ruined voice was ragged – breathless – and his back arched, chin tipping up for a moment. _"Want...just...c'mon –"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, okay –"_ Sam's voice had gone thick – throaty and low and Victor felt a little rush of hotcold go over him. Dean shoved back off the wall, his fingers still twisted in Sam's hair and Sam came up off his knees with a sinuous twist, his hands on Dean, dragging at clothing. His mouth finding Dean's mouth and then throat, open-mouthed kisses that Victor was sure would leave marks. They stripped each other, not hurrying. Touching every newly exposed inch – kissing in between, mostly silent. Sprawling out on the bed to a chorus of tortured squeaks that made them both laugh.  
  
 _"Oh, man,, remember the first time we fucked here, these damn beds? Dad threw his boot at us 'cause we woke him up..."_  
  
Dick made a choking sort of noise, denial and horror, and Victor shot him a look, the same feelings welling up in himself.  
  
 _"God, yeah, crappy fucking things..."_ Sam bounced deliberately, making the springs shriek, and Dean bounced on top of him, hand slapping along the wall until it came to the little shelf that served in place of a night table. His hand fumbled with something, a moment of stillness and then Sam was squirming under him, turning onto his belly. Spreading his legs and looking back over his shoulder at Dean, back arched and elbows braced. _"Gonna make this old bed lay down and cry,"_ he said, and Dean went up onto his knees, one hand in the small of Sam's back, the other on his own cock.  
  
Slicking himself, Victor realized belatedly, his head still whirling over the idea that John Winchester had _known_...and done nothing. _*Jesus Christ, what kind of a father...? Fuck, maybe he started it all, maybe he was fucking the both of them, Jesus...Christ...*_ Which might be one explanation. Might be one bit of sanity to cling to in this insane mess. Maybe these men were like they were because John Winchester was a fucked up, child-abusing freak who'd destroyed his son's lives before they'd even had a chance to live it.  
  
 _*Gotta be some reason...gotta be, oh, God...*_  
  
Sam's head was back, a rumbling moan coming out of his half-open mouth. And Dean...Dean was half-kneeling, leaning over him. Hand on his cock, guiding himself forward. _Into_. Victor watched in sick fascination as Sam panted, his legs fanning wider and then pushing – shifting. Coming up on his knees and Dean bracing himself on the high, muscled curve of Sam's ass, his pelvis pressed tight to Sam's body.  
  
Leaning forward over him, his mouth pressing kisses and small bites to the long sweep of Sam's back. They were at an angle to the camera and Victor watched the dance of light and shadow – muscle and tendon – in Dean's back. Watched his body tighten and gather itself – thrust itself forward and draw slowly back while Sam keened for air and gripped the sheets, pulling the thin, wash-worn cotton free of the inadequate anchor of the limp mattress.  
  
 _"Dean...c'mon, c'mon..."  
  
"Got you, shh..."_ Dean's hands smoothed over Sam's skin – his mouth found this and that spot that made Sam arch – twist – say Dean's name in a breathy whisper, over and over. And Dean whispered to his brother, mostly too low for the mic, drowned by the tortured groan of the springs. But...  
  
 _"God...Sammy...this...here, you...love...love..."_  
  
"That's not love, that's psychosis," Dick muttered and Victor blinked, his attention abruptly diverted. He felt like he'd been half asleep. Dick was standing hard against the door, arms crossed so tight it had to hurt. Thornton snorted, shoving half of a Slim Jim into his mouth and chewing loudly.  
  
"Man, they took gay out of the 'this is crazy behavior' book a _long_ time ago."  
  
Dick shot the skinny tech an incredulous look. "They're _brothers_ , for fuck's sake! They're not even step or half or adopted. They're _blood brothers_!"  
  
"They are?" Thornton chewed – swallowed – watched the screen for a moment. "Huh."  
  
"Jesus." Dick pushed away from the wall, nostrils flaring. "Todd said their car's not out there. He said it looks like they rented a couple of ATV's from this old man that lives down near the state park. Says they probably came overland – might have a camp set up somewhere."  
  
"Great. Just have to be a hundred percent sure we get 'em." Victor rubbed his hand over his head, scratching at his scalp. He needed a shower. "When's the damn SWAT gonna be here?"  
  
"Hour or something? I need to check in with 'em," Dick said, and went out the door. Victor watched him go – looked over at Thornton, who was engrossed in a graphic novel. Looked at his feet in the worn-out work boots that Dick had scrounged for him. But a moment later, his gaze and attention was focused on the blue-grey image on the monitors, eyes drawn unwillingly but inexorably back.  
  
The two men were still entwined, moving in a slow, shifting dance of flesh and bone. Hands and mouths and thighs, arms and backs curving and flattening – lifting and dropping. Dean had his fingers in Sam's hair and turned his head – found Sam's mouth with his own, awkward angle that neither of them seemed to mind. Kissing in hard, biting kisses, their mouths wet and panting as Dean's hips snapped forward and back and Sam's whole body quivered with tension and strain. And lust.  
  
 _"Dean, Dean, fuck...now, c'mon, now, now –"  
  
"Sam, Sss...aaam..."_ Dean's mouth slipped down Sam's jaw – his throat. Settled somewhere between throat and shoulder and then he must have bit down because Sam cried out, bucking hard, and Dean's whole body went rigid, hips stuttering out of rhythm, lungs heaving. Sam all but collapsed, barely propped on his wide-spread knees and Dean's hand snaked under him, arm and shoulder moving – pumping. Sam made a whining sound of pure pleasure and shuddered and then they were both simply lying there, gasping.  
  
Victor felt – too hot. Felt like he couldn't quite get enough air and he watched as Dean squirmed a little sideways, slipping out and off and around until they were facing each other, limbs tangled. Knot of flesh and bone and skin, hands slowly petting over each other – mouths finding places to kiss and suck. Lit at an angle by the low slant of sunset light coming in through the thin curtains.  
  
 _"Paid in full, then?"_ Sam said, and Dean laughed softly.  
  
Put his hand up and touched Sam's cheek. _"Think I owe you some change."_ And they were kissing again, unhurried and _gentle_ and...  
  
It was too much. It was too _secret_ , this. Something so incredibly private and intimate that Victor felt a moment of shame for seeing it.  
  
 _*Fuck that. They've killed people. Hundreds. They're **brothers** , they were probably abused by their fucking dad and this is...wrong, it's wrong and...sick.*_ Victor stood up and paced in a tiny circle. The men were unarmed – oblivious to the outside world. He should simply – go in. Walk right up to the cabin and knock on the door. Or kick it in. He glanced at the screen again, watching as they mock-wrestled on the bed. As they disentangled themselves and stood up – went over to the corner with the shower head and got the water running. The plastic sheeting rippled and bulged in the air currents, and the other camera showed their head and shoulders.  
  
Showed Sam pushing Dean up against the wall and kissing him – showed them both with handfuls of soap, slippery fingers running over taut flesh and sluicing it clean. And Victor...didn't go. _*All these crazy stories...got me spooked. Damnit, they're just **men**. Neither one of 'em is older than I am. They don't have any gear, they don't have any backup... Just – do it, man. Just move in. Take them.*_  
  
Ten minutes later, Dick was back in the office and Victor was slumped into the chair again, watching the men pass a bottle back and forth – watching them draw some kind of complicated design on the floor of the cabin in what looked like flour or cornmeal.  
  
" _Now_ what the hell are they doing?" Dick had his phone in his hand, fingers poised. "SWAT is about forty minutes out. Breaking the damn speed limit twice over."  
  
"I think they're gonna meditate," Thornton said, shoving a wheat and cream cheese cracker into his mouth.  
  
"How in hell are you so skinny?" Victor asked, and Thornton grinned at him, cracker smushed in his teeth.  
  
"I have a very high metabolism."  
  
"They used to call that a tapeworm," Dick muttered, and Victor barked a sharp little laugh.  
  
"Jesus, man. Okay – SWAT's almost here. Maybe they'll be done conjuring up the ghost of Jim Morrison or whatever the fuck they're doing."  
  
"Man, I hope so. That kind of stuff just creeps me out." Dick watched the screen, a sour look on his face, as the Winchesters finished up whatever they were drawing and then paged through the book Dean had unearthed. Sam read something out loud and Dean seemed to correct his pronunciation and they both laughed. Then Sam started to read again, his voice strong and steady – clear. Whatever language he was speaking, Victor didn't recognize it.  
  
Dean went over to the little pie-safe and moved it aside – pressed his fingers to the wall, both hands spread. Victor cursed as the board swiveled, revealing a cubby. "God damnit, how'd we miss that?"  
  
"We checked every inch, I felt over that whole wall myself," Dick muttered, and Victor knew he had. He watched as Dean pulled out a dusty-looking canvas hold-all and laid it on the little kitchen table. He unzipped it and drew out one, and then a second rag-wrapped bundle. The rags came off, heaped carelessly on the floor, revealing two sawed-off shotguns, gleaming with gun oil and good care. Dean cracked them open – fed shells in from the hold-all. He snapped the shotguns closed and went to stand by Sam, who was still reading. Chanting, really, his voice rising and falling in a rhythm that reminded Victor of church, somehow. Prayer...  
  
"Fuck, is that _Arabic_?" Victor felt a surge of adrenalin go through him. He'd been briefed – he'd listened to the tapes. The fanatics shouting – chanting – psyching themselves up for suicide bomb runs and firefights.  
  
"If it is, it's a dialect. I can't quite get a handle on it," Thornton said, and Victor turned to stare at him. Thornton shrugged. "I was a translator for a couple of years. I'm catching a few words but it's not...right."  
  
 _*What the hell are you fuckers up to?*_ Victor couldn't quite see the Winchester boys as suicide bombers or terrorists or, hell, anything but psychopaths, to be honest. This was just one more element of 'too fucking weird' to add to the list. As they watched, Dean tucked a shotgun under his arm – drew a knife from his belt and turned his left arm up, baring the tanned flesh of his forearm. The other shotgun held in his fist, his gaze on Sam. After a moment Sam nodded and Dean flicked the knife across his arm. Blood welled up, fast, and Dean let it fall onto the blade of the knife – lifted the knife and flung the blood across the diagram they'd drawn.  
  
It _smoked_. The blood, or the stuff they'd drawn the diagram with or, hell, the floor, who knew? "What in _fuck_ is going on in there?" Victor snapped, and Thornton adjusted something, zooming the camera's eye in a little closer.  
  
"Man, I dunno, I can't get a really good look...is it _burning_?"  
  
"It can't be burning," Victor said, looking up at Dick, who was stripping out of his coat and flannel and struggling into his Kevlar vest and Victor started to do the same. _*Only smart. Fuck knows what's gonna happen...*_  
  
"Fuck, this is gettin' weird, we need to get in there," Dick said, tugging the vest's straps tight, and Victor shook his head, angry and unhappy and so tense his head was starting to pound.  
  
"They're fucking armed now. Or – armed _more_. Who knows what else they've got in there that we missed? We have to wait for SWAT." Victor turned and stared back at the screens, watching as Dean flung more blood onto the diagram and finally threw the knife, point-down into the center of the design. Then he was moving, fast and efficient. Wrapping up his cut arm, pulling on his flannel shirt and jacket and stuffing handfuls of shotgun shells into his jacket pockets. He zipped up the hold-all and then looped the strap of it over his shoulder. _*Fuck, are they leaving? They look like they're getting ready to bug the hell out...God **damnit** , we've got to move, move -*_  
  
"Vic, we _gotta_ –"  
  
"I know, I know...call SWAT, tell 'em what's going on, tell 'em –"  
  
"Hey –" Thornton said, and Victor felt his mouth go dry as Sam closed the book. As Dean turned and stared straight into the camera, the look on his face pure predator.  
  
 _"You think we didn't notice you, sniffing along our trail? Think we haven't heard the whispers – seen your shadows? We've got your fucking scent, Agent Henricksen. Got it in our noses. Think we'll forget?"_ The scene jumped – flickered – and the bulb in the cabin went out. Came back on again a second later, dimmer and flickering. A burst of static across the monitor and then it steadied again. Something – smoke or dust – was whirling slowly in the center of the diagram. Moving, stretching and Dean glanced over his shoulder at it, then looked back up at the camera.  
  
 _"We don't like being watched, Victor. We don't like questions being asked and we don't like our business being pried into. This is your first and only warning. Get off our trail and stay off it."_ Another glance back, and whatever was happening in the center of the room was happening faster. Smoke or flame or _something_ was leaping up and up; taking a shape and casting a too-bright light and Sam was standing right beside Dean, face averted – shoulders tense.  
  
 _"Now or never, Dean. The ifrit's here,"_ he said, and Dean nodded.  
  
 _"You think we're not serious, Victor, you just go have a chat with ole' Gordon. He'll straighten you right out."_ And then Dean grinned. That wide, happy smile that was made to break hearts and charm church ladies and Victor felt the hair rise on the back of his neck – felt his heart jump in his chest like a rabbit. Pounding so hard it hurt, sudden sweat cold and slick under his arms. The scene on the monitors broke up entirely, whiting out and crackling into jumping static while the audio whined and moaned like a winter wind, Sam's voice just barely distinguishable, shouting something. The very air felt – strange. Oppressive and too hot and _shaking_ somehow and when Victor looked over at Dick he was white as a sheet.  
  
"SWAT's ten minutes out –"  
  
"We've got to go _now_ , fuck, try and get the visual back –" Victor yanked his sidearm out of it's holster – barreled toward the door, Dick right behind him. The bar was almost deserted, only a very drunk couple swaying on the tiny dance floor and Todd behind the bar, looking like he was going to bolt. The empty room seemed ominous to Victor and he tried to steady his breathing – slow his heart down.  
  
"Hey, listen, I gotta get outta here –" Todd said and Victor stopped with his hand on the door, glaring at the man.  
  
"You stay put, Mr. Jinks, or our deal is off and you'll be in prison so fast your head'll spin. Dick – no warning. We go in guns blazing."  
  
"Right." Dick's hand, clenched tight around his own weapon, moved from forehead to chest to shoulders. Crossing himself with cold steel and it made Victor shiver. "Think it's some kind of bomb? Something like they had at Rivergrove?"  
  
"I dunno, man. Just – be fucking careful."  
  
Dick nodded, double-handed grip on his weapon and Victor shoved the door open – ran toward the corner, the cabins – the Wolfpack, and whatever the hell they were doing in there. As he skidded on loose gravel and frozen dust the cabin door shattered, chunks and foot-long splinters blasting across the parking lot. Victor ducked on pure instinct – barely felt the peppering of scraps of cheap ply that whirred over him. There was a noise – like a train, like a tornado. Like the sea, rushing and roaring and Victor turned his face back to the cabin, gun lifting automatically. Something stood in the doorway – was splintering the doorway outward, something made of fire and smoke and light, something _beautiful_ , so beautiful but not – not right.  
  
"What the hell! What the hell!" from Dick, somewhere left and behind him and then gunshots, threefourfive, fast and useless, totally useless as the _*Angel, monster no, God no...*_ stalked toward them with a limping, liquid stride. Victor felt bile rising in his throat – brought his shaking hands to bear on two shadows that were slipping out behind the thing. Sam and Dean, running, not looking back and Victor squeezed the trigger and the thing, the angel the... _*God, it's a void, it's nothing, it's suffocating me*_   turned its eyeless face, its thousand eyes on him and Victor screamed.  
  
  
  
  
From the _Cibola County Beacon_ , October 28th, 2007. _"A firestorm tore through the desert early yesterday evening, destroying homes, businesses, cars and trucks. A local favorite, the Piñon Bar, was at the epicenter of the blaze..."_  
  
  
From the _Cibola County Beacon_ , October 29th, 2007. _"The death toll continues to rise in the wake of a freak firestorm in Cibola County. While many homes and buildings are still smoldering, the bodies being found in and around them often show signs of mutilation, possibly by animals. The County Coroners office says that they are still investigating the 100-plus deaths..."_  
  
  
From an internal memo, FBI headquarters, Washington, DC. " _Agent Richard 'Dick' Mason, deceased, Special Agent Keith Nunan, SWAT, deceased, Special Agent Robert Carlisle, SWAT, deceased, Special Agent Thomas McLoughlin, SWAT, deceased... Agent Victor Henricksen, serious condition, University of New Mexico Hospital..."_  
  
  
From the _Neosho Daily News_ , Neosho, Missouri, November 23rd, 2007. _"The mutilated corpse of an African-American man found in the Neosho Inn on Tuesday has been identified as Gordon Walker, 37..."_  
  
  
From a transcript of recordings made at the 'Piñon Bar', October 27th, 2007, Cibola County, New Mexico.  
  
Third voice, unknown: _"...what (broken) you of me? (broken)"_  
  
Sam Winchester (?): _"...one hour...damage as you want...break (the?) binding...last..."_  
  
Dean Winchester: _"...do...worst...done here..."_  
  
Third voice, unknown: _"...hear...will is...freedom..."_  
  
Past this point the audio recording is too damaged to reconstruct.


End file.
